The four of them sit in the dimly lit Slytherin common room, the crackling fire the only source of warmth in a world that feels colder by the day. Theo leans back in his chair, staring at the flickering flames, a cigarette dangling lazily from his fingers. Draco sits with his elbows on his knees, hands steepled beneath his chin, as if deep in thought. Mattheo swirls the last bit of Firewhiskey in his glass, while Enzo lounges in the corner, arms crossed, lost in his own thoughts.

“We always said we couldn’t wait to grow up,” Enzo mutters, breaking the silence.

Mattheo huffs out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Look how that turned out.”

Theo shakes his head, eyes heavy with regret. He exhales slowly, smoke curling into the air. “If we knew back then what it would be like…” His voice trails off, but the meaning is clear—none of this, not the Dark Mark, the pain, or the impossible choices, is what they imagined growing older would feel like.

“We thought it would be freedom,” Draco says quietly, staring at his arm, where the Dark Mark hides beneath his sleeve. “We thought it’d be fun. Parties, power, women—" He scoffs bitterly. “Instead, we got this.” He rubs his arm absentmindedly, as if the weight of the mark burns even when it isn’t visible.

Mattheo drains the last bit of Firewhiskey in his glass. “Sometimes... I wish I could go back. Just for a minute.” His voice is softer than usual, almost vulnerable. “Change my mind. Make us all say no.”

“None of this feels right,” Theo murmurs. “We were kids. What the hell did we know?”

“I just want out,” Enzo mutters, rubbing his face with both hands. “I’d trade everything to be twelve again. Just one day where none of this shite matters.”

Draco’s jaw tightens, and he nods, though he doesn’t speak. They all feel it—the regret, the ache for the simpler days when they were just boys dreaming of the future, not knowing the nightmares that would come with it.